


Some Time in Los Angeles

by orphan_account



Series: The American Episodes [4]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-20 07:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The course of oceans liners never does run smooth. Phryne and Jack left San Francisco for Melbourne at the end of "Welcome to San Francisco" but get diverted to Los Angeles. A murder mystery can't be far behind. A new case fic in my "American Episodes" series.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I finished a many month's long real-life writing project and thought I'd give you all a new case fic while I have a little down time. Here's the opening scene, in the [Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel](https://www.discoverlosangeles.com/blog/hollywood-roosevelt-hotel-story-la-icon), to set the mood.

**Los Angeles — May, 1930**

In Jack’s defense, it was very late and they should have been halfway to Australia by now. 

“I’ll get a second room in my own name, Phryne,” he said, once the Roosevelt Hotel’s overnight clerk scurried to the back office. “It’s not worth the time.” 

“Nonsense, Jack,” she answered, her tone equally aggrieved beneath a positive exterior. “I’ll have this sorted in a moment.” 

He understood her meaning — all of her meanings, she was a complicated woman — and took a step back from the reception desk as his frustration rose. The bellman, waiting patiently, as he was paid to do, held Jack and Phryne’s co-mingled luggage on a polished brass cart. The other arriving hotel guests, all made temporarily homeless by a malfunctioning boiler on the _SS Monterey_ , waited with considerably less patience. Phryne paid them no mind. 

“I’m unable to reach the manager at this hour,” the clerk, now returned, insisted to Phryne. “I must see your husband’s passport before James can escort you to your room. It’s the only way the Matson Line will pay for your accommodations.” 

Phryne answered without hesitation. “I’ll pay for my own accommodations.” 

“I’ll still require your husband’s passport.” 

A small smile was Phryne's only response as she reached into her handbag. If the young man happened to catch a glimpse of her pearl-handled revolver, so much the better. She had no intention of losing a battle of wills against a hotel clerk in the furthest reaches of America over something as silly as whether or not she shared a last name with her chosen traveling companion. Phryne plucked a hundred dollar bill from her bag and placed it, daintily, between the pages of the hotel register. 

The clerk lowered his voice to a whisper. “That’s most irregular, ma’am.” For a split second, Phryne wasn’t certain if he was honestly offended by the notion of a bribe or pushing her to raise the figure. Best to up her own ante. 

“More irregular than the illicit booze you provide to your patrons?” she countered. It was a stab in the dark, but likely enough. Their extended trip across the US had revealed enough about the responses to Prohibition at this sort of hotel. 

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no ma’am,” the clerk stammered, confused enough now by Phryne’s bravado that Jack felt a bit sorry for him. The young man recovered quickly though, fist gripped tightly around the room key. “There’s nothing irregular here. The manager expects me to procure refreshments for our customers." 

“Of course,” Phryne finessed, her fingers still grasping the currency where it emerged from the pages of the registry book. “But is the manager aware of the personal markup you add on top?” 

It was another bluff. 

Another very good bluff. 

The clerk folded with a wounded sigh, shoving the room key across the reception desk towards Phryne. In turn, she released her grasp on the hundred dollar bill with the kind of high-wattage victorious smile that would put a Hollywood starlet to shame. 

Phryne motioned for the bellman and suddenly the whole assemblage of the Roosevelt Hotel was set to rights again. They crossed the wide expanse of the open lobby, exited towards the main swimming pool, palm fronds blowing under a nearly moonless sky, and stopped at a poolside cabana — one of the most luxurious suites on offer. 

Jack half expected to find a dead body sprawled face down on the carpet as they entered the living room. 

Melbourne, and the life he had six months ago before this American adventure began, seemed a million miles away. 


	2. Assistance

It was nearly noon the next day before Jack and Phryne had much chance to talk. 

Restless, Jack had left the hotel in the early hours before she stirred. Returning now, he found her lounging on a teak chaise near the pool, as comfortable and relaxed as if this had been her planned destination all along. Somehow she had acquired a teal green bathing costume and wide brimmed straw hat. Jack watched with open admiration as she idly stirred the ice in her glass. 

The pool attendant caught him watching. “She’s a British movie star,” the man said. 

“She tell you that?” Jack asked with a smile. 

“No, sir,” the young man replied. “I only brought her a fresh towel. But look at her. What else could she be?” The attendant’s voice trailed and became a whistle of admiration. 

_Anything she wants to be_ , Jack thought. 

Jack took a confident step in Phryne’s direction, only to find the pool attendant stopping his motion with a nudge to the shoulder and a friendly warning. “She’s married.” 

There was indeed an engagement ring, of sorts, on Phryne’s hand. It sparkled brilliantly in the mid-day sun as she flipped the pages of a glossy magazine. 

“Not a problem, mate,” Jack said and resumed his path. 

Phryne had been wearing the ring in question since San Francisco, originally as part of a costume as she went undercover to help Lin Chung, then later, as a symbol of some kind of commitment to Jack, if not precisely the symbol that others assumed. The ring’s exact meaning, tangled up as it was with so many other aspects of their partnership, remained on a list of things to be discussed eventually in Melbourne, when they someday returned. 

Jack’s kiss, once he reached her on the chaise, was unambiguous, as was Phryne’s response. 

“There you are,” she said warmly, her features softening into a smile that was his alone. 

“Here I am,” was his simple reply. “Let’s go inside.” 

* * *

Forty-five minutes later they had polished off a hearty lunch and bottle of illicit bubbly. The suite’s living room was drenched in sunlight. Phryne had pulled a silk robe over her swimming costume. Jack was equally relaxed in shirtsleeves and light brown trousers. 

“Actual French champagne,” Jack noted, tipping the last drops into Phryne’s glass. 

“It arrived complimentary with room service,” she replied. “I didn’t inquire further.” 

“Any word from the Matson Line while I was out?” he asked, joining her on the white canvas sofa. 

“None at all,” she answered. “I suspect we’re here at least one more night.” 

“Just as well,” Jack said, his tone nonchalant. 

His very attempt at indifference caught her attention. “Why?” she asked with a teasing laugh. “What were you up to this morning?” 

“There’s no secret,” he answered. “You were sound asleep. I caught a cab to the main telegraph office and happened to reach Hugh at the end of his evening shift. Six messages back and forth and it nearly felt like a true conversation.” 

“Has a new Commissioner been appointed?” Phryne asked, assuming that lingering uncertainty would have been the main topic of conversation. 

“No, but Russell Street has been trying to get in touch with me on another matter,” he added. “It seems they had trouble locating a Detective Inspector John Robinson of Melbourne, Australia registered under his own name in San Francisco.” On the surface, his tone was light, but they both understood that the extended trip made Jack’s job less secure upon their return. 

“Surely Hugh knew where to find us,” Phryne replied, some defensiveness ringing in her tone. 

“Hugh wasn’t aware of the initial request,” Jack responded. “Russell Street contacted him when they couldn’t reach me directly.” 

“Alright,” she answered, drawing out the word as a prompt for him to continue the story. 

“There’s an alibi witness here that they’d like for me to interview. Local police haven’t prioritized their request to get a formal statement from the man.” 

“Here in Los Angeles,” Phryne repeated. 

“Yes. Several months ago a man was murdered in Melbourne. The leading suspect claims Matthias Irving, a man somehow involved in the film business, was with him at the time and can prove his innocence.” 

“So Russell Street was trying to reach you in San Francisco to ask you to come to Los Angeles.” 

“Precisely. That’s what I said.” 

“No,” Phryne chided. “It’s not exactly what you said. You were implying that our time in San Francisco – time which put a very dangerous man behind bars, mind you – had somehow harmed your standing with Russell Street. But now, as luck would have it, you are in Los Angeles, have received the message and can fulfill their request. All's well that ends well.” 

“I don’t know any such thing,” Jack said, frustration rising. “The situation may be neither well or ended. Mr. Irving could be long gone by now.” 

“Well then,” Phryne responded, setting her glass down on the side table with more force than was absolutely necessary. “We better get to work on finding him.” 

Phryne rose from the sofa and walked towards the bedroom to change. Jack stopped her before she reached the threshold. 

“Phryne,” he started, “There is no _we_ in this particular instance. Russell Street is sending me in an official capacity.” 

“And when you’ve asked for my help in Melbourne, hasn’t that also been in an official capacity,” she stated, blue eyes blazing. 

“I’m not asking for your help today.” 

“Ah. I see,” she said simply, making no attempt to conceal the genuine hurt in her eyes. 

Jack modulated his tone to a softer register and held her gaze. “I’m going to find Mr. Irving and take his statement, then send it to Russell Street. That’s all. It isn’t my investigation to command. I'm following an order.” 

“Of course, Jack,” she answered, breaking eye contact and turning back towards the bedroom. “I have things to do on my own this afternoon as well.” 

Jack knew he hadn’t put things to rights, and yet, what good was more conversation on the matter at the moment? He selected a tie from the top of the bureau, grabbed his suit coat and hat and slipped out into the afternoon heat. If all went well, he’d be back before dinner. 

* * *

Just over the Hollywood Hills, in a tiny rented cottage in Burbank, all wasn’t going well. 

Mattias Irving, slumped over in a leather club chair, held a letter from the Royal Victorian police department of Melbourne, Australia, requesting his assistance in an important matter. As the Burbank police would soon discover, Mr. Irving was in no position to help anyone. He was quite dead. 


	3. New Friends

Later that afternoon, Phryne found herself back inside the Roosevelt Hotel’s cavernous lobby. 

After Jack had left so abruptly on his assignment, her anger continued to simmer. 

Fleeting eye contact with a muscular hotel gardener — soaked with sweat in the mid-day sun as he labored to transplant thirsty east coast flowers to this arid climate — suggested one manner of release. The Phryne of a year ago would have made that choice without regret. Today’s Phryne, after a bout of pleasurable solo fantasy, contented herself with a lemonade and a risqué French novel in the lobby’s central café. 

“May I join you?” spoke a male voice. Phryne looked up to see an elegantly dressed man of early middle age, with a tie that just a bit too shiny, and dark hair that was just a bit too slicked back. “I hate to see such a beautiful woman sitting alone.” 

“You’re free to join,” Phryne answered. “But it doesn’t mean I accept the premise.” 

The man pulled out the opposite chair and sat down before he had truly registered the meaning of her words. Another look at her, and he suddenly realized that she fully expected him to do so. 

“The premise?” he repeated, stalling for time. 

“Yes,” she replied, “The notion that a woman sitting alone in public is in need of rescue, or that you might determine this by her outward appearance.” 

There was a steeliness to her tone to match her logic, partnered with an engaging smile. Jack would have recognized the combination as an opening gambit in a bid for an intelligent conversation. This man, however, remained befuddled. 

“I beg your pardon,” he replied. “I only meant that you might enjoy a bit of company, to pass the time.” 

“Of course,” Phryne smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with friendly conversation. Take that young woman to our left for instance,” she continued, gesturing to a wrought-iron table just beyond the tiled fountain that formed the café’s centerpiece. “She might wish to join us as well.” 

“Yes, certainly,” the man said, agreeing verbally out of rote politeness, yet remaining seated at the table. 

Phryne sipped her drink in silence. 

“Ah, you mean that you wish me to invite her to the table,” he said, finally catching on. 

Phryne nodded. “Or shall I do the honors?” 

The man stood up and with a small bow traversed the café to fulfill Phryne’s request. 

In due course, the young woman in question accepted the invitation. Introducing herself as Margaret Whitlock, she appeared to be in her late twenties, dressed simply, if neatly, in an off-white skirt and light blue blouse, carrying a small notebook and a Hemingway novel borrowed from the library. As tea was served, Meg and Phryne held a wide ranging conversation on recent literature, including Hemingway’s realism in the depiction of Spanish bullfighting. Joel Armstrong, the man in the shiny tie, attempted to intercede and change the topic to one more matched to his own interests, but threw in the towel once Phryne insisted on paying the bill. 

Meg repaid the kindness by showing Phryne the sights just outside the hotel on Hollywood Boulevard — Grauman’s Egyptian Theater, one of the first great movie palaces, and the newer, more elaborate Chinese Theater, where movie royalty were immortalized with hand and footprints in the sidewalk cement. A typist in the story department at Paramount, Meg held Phryne rapt with stories of romantic entanglements and scandal behind the studio gates. Phryne, in turn, told the tale of mayhem from her time on a film set back in Melbourne. 

As the afternoon came to a close and Phryne bid Meg farewell, she couldn’t help but notice that she glanced back to the main entrance of the Hollywood Roosevelt. 

“Would you care to join me for an early dinner at the hotel, Miss Whitlock?” Phryne ventured. 

“Thank you, no. You’re very kind,” Meg replied. “I thought I saw Mr. Armstrong leave the hotel a moment ago. That’s what drew my attention.” 

“I apologize for subjecting you to him earlier,” Phryne answered. “Although I am pleased it led to our acquaintance.” 

“No. I’m afraid you’ve lost my meaning, Miss Fisher. I was _at_ the Roosevelt to observe Mr. Armstrong.” 

“Go on,” Phryne encouraged. 

“You see, I believe he had something to do with my fiance’s disappearance earlier this week, but the police won’t take me seriously. They don’t believe there was foul play at all.” 

In in an instant, Phryne was pressing her card into Meg’s outstretched hand. 

“The Honourable Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective,” Meg read aloud. 

Phryne linked arms with Meg and led her back across the boulevard as traffic came to a halt. “I think we better have that dinner together after all.” 

* * *

Jack’s afternoon of solo police work was a study in frustration. 

Although the Melbourne police had supplied an address for Mattias Irving, the boarding house attached to that address no longer lodged the man in question. At the door, the proprietress informed, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t giving out a forwarding address to any old Jack that happened upon the scene, particularly not one with a funny accent claiming to be a cop. A search through the public change of address records at the nearest post office proved more fruitful, but the required a time-consuming cab ride through the snarls of Los Angeles traffic, over the Hollywood hills and back down into the San Fernando Valley. 

By the time Jack reached the new address, just off Moorpark Avenue in Burbank — a stone’s throw from the Warner Brothers ranch — Mr. Irving no longer resided at any earthly address. 

As the medical examiner pulled away, Jack introduced himself to the officer on the scene. 

“Did you have business with the deceased, Inspector Robinson?” asked Office Mike Aaron. He was slight young man, fair-complexioned, with the faint beginnings of a light brown mustache across his upper lip. Jack suspected he wasn’t more than a few months out of the police academy. 

“I’ve never met the man,” Jack replied. “My superior officers wished me to contact him on a local matter.” 

Jack ascended the short flight of steps to the front porch and peered through the open door of the cottage into the living room where Mr. Irving presumably met his demise. Officer Aaron was close on his heels. 

“I can’t let you into my crime scene, Inspector,” Aaron stated, extending a long arm across the door frame to block Jack’s passage. 

“I assure you, I’ve been in command of thousands of crime scenes, Officer. I’ll need to send a full report back to Melbourne.” 

“You’re welcome to drop by my station in a few days once an official report has been compiled.” 

“I’ll be on ship to Australia by then,” Jack persisted. 

“In that case, I’ll send the report directly on for you.” 

Grudgingly, Jack took a step back. Perhaps the young officer had more savvy than he first assumed. 

“Will you allow me access to find a pen and piece of paper?” Jack asked. “I’ll need to leave you with my contact information.” 

With a nod, Aaron dropped his hand from the door frame. Jack stepped into the darkened room. 

* * *

Several hours later, now well past dinner time, Jack exited a cab in front of the Hollywood Roosevelt. 

As he crossed the lobby, and turned past the swimming pool towards the cabanas, Jack couldn’t help but feel grateful to have Phryne there waiting for him. He anticipated a glass of whiskey, or whatever other alcohol she had managed to procure in whatever method he’d rather not know about in too much detail. He looked forward to her warm voice and sparkling wit as they talked about the day. He longed to take her to bed, make love to her, and hold her close. 

But as he turned his key and stepped inside, the suite was too quiet; the rooms too dark. 

A single table lamp illuminated a scrap of paper with Phryne’s prominent scrawl. Jack sighed, then smiled, despite himself, as he read the note: _“Jack! I have a case!”_


	4. The Pull of Investigations

Early the next morning, Phryne and Jack found themselves at a poolside breakfast buffet with the other first class passengers of the hobbled _SS Monterey_. Phryne sipped fresh squeezed orange juice and nibbled a doughy pastry that claimed to be an authentic French croissant while Jack made small talk with an American wool importer. Only the promise of direct answers from an Matson Line official had enticed this particular restless assemblage together so early in the morning. 

At a break in the conversation, Jack excused himself and made his way to Phryne. 

“What time did you get in last night,” he asked. 

“I’m not certain, darling,” Phryne answered. “I spoke with my client, Miss Whitlock, quite late into the evening at her apartment. When I got back to the room, you were sound asleep. No doubt worn out from your own business.” 

Jack gave only a small nod in response. 

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” she continued. The words said the right thing, yet her tone suggested that his worry for her safety was, once again, unwelcome. 

“Still, Phryne,” he began, treading cautiously, “all things being equal, I would have preferred that your note last night had revealed more about where you were and what you were involved with.” 

“Yes,” she replied, drawing the word out to an unnatural length. “But all things aren’t equal, are they?” 

This was neither the time nor place to continue that particular conversation. 

Luckily for them both, the Matson Line official, Howard Elder, arrived and asked for quiet. After making the necessary apologies and extolling various corporate virtues as required by salary, Mr. Elder got down to business. “The Monterey will not be fit to sail for the next two weeks.” 

The expected groan went up from the assemblage and Mr. Elder once again called for quiet. “Some of you will be re-booked, at our expense, on a sister ship leaving this afternoon. We cannot accommodate everyone, but those who take this option can expect to reach Sydney, or Melbourne if that is your final destination, much earlier than those who choose to wait for the Monterey to be ship-shape.” 

“You should do that, Jack,” Phryne whispered. 

“Without you?” he asked, then caught her arm and indicated that they should move to the edge of the crowd. 

“I have a case,” she continued. “A young man is missing. I can’t possible leave with that matter unresolved, but I’m not going to delay you any further. Not when you have pressing business with Russell Street and I've delayed you at every stop. That wouldn’t be fair to you.” 

“Yes, well…” he stammered. His head was swimming. This was not a decision he was prepared to make on the spot, or even fully contemplate. 

Mr. Elder’s voice boomed above the din of the crowd. “This offer is first come, first served. Anyone wishing to sail for Australia today must see my agent, Mr. Davidson, straight away.” From Phryne’s vantage, it seemed that more than half of the other passengers were already forming a line in front of Mr. Davidson, jostling for position at the mere mention of scarcity. 

“Do you really wish me to leave?” Jack asked, eyes searching hers as he attempted to cut through to the heart of the matter. 

“It’s not what I want, Jack,” she replied, eyes fixed on his. “But I believe it’s what's needed.” 

* * *

The next few hours were a riot of activity – paperwork and banking arranged, clothing sorted, Jack’s trunk re-packed. Before Jack loaded into cab for the lengthy drive to the Port of Long Beach, there were kisses, caresses and murmured words of devotion, but no reversal of the decision. She was right, as usual. It was the practical decision, if not any easy one to bear. 

* * *

Near noon, Phryne boarded her own cab for the much shorter trip to the gates of Paramount Studios. Meg Whitlock emerged on her lunch hour and she and Phryne decamped to a nearby diner to continue their consultation. 

As Meg had revealed the previous evening, her fiancé, Brian Evans, was a brilliant inventor. With the film business converting completely to sound pictures, the race was on to improve sound recording and playback across the board. Brian had designed improvements to a mobile microphone and recently entered into business with Mr. Armstrong of the shiny ties, who had promised to turn his invention into cash. 

Unfortunately, Meg knew only the broad strokes of the plan. Brian, not wishing to trouble her with his business concerns, remained tight-lipped on the details. Now, with his life potentially in danger, the details simply had to be unearthed. 

“Were you able to reach Brian’s landlady this morning,” Phryne asked, once she and Meg were settled into a red leather banquette. 

“Yes,” Meg answered. “I was uncomfortable lying to her — she’s been very kind — but I did as you instructed.” 

“And did it work?” 

“I told her Brian had forgotten his prescription, and needed me to send it along to him on his business trip. She unlocked his room and let me in.” 

“Still no sign of him.” 

“No, I could tell he hadn’t been there in days. When Miss Darla left me alone, I grabbed these.” Meg produced a bundle of notebooks from the recesses of her over-sized bag. “These three contain the schematics for the microphone and his design notes. The smaller one in his datebook.” 

“Fabulous work,” Phryne gushed as she turned her attention to the most recently marked pages of his calendar. 

“Anything useful in the mail, or anything from the patent office at all?” Phryne inquired. 

“Not that I could find quickly,” Meg replied. “I did have to get to work on time today.” 

Phryne nodded, prepared to move on to the next item in her list of questions. 

“But I did snatch this from the front entryway when Miss Darla was occupied in the kitchen.” 

Meg dangled a key from a silver chain then slid it across the formica table into Phryne’s outstretched hand. 

“You’re a natural, Meg!” Phryne beamed. “We’ll get to the bottom of this before the week is out.” 

* * *

Several miles south, Jack cooled his heels in a Matson Line waiting room at the Port of Long Beach. 

He considered calling Phryne at the Roosevelt for one last farewell, but presumed she’d be out, working her case. Instead, he asked the operator to connect him with Office Mike Aaron in Burbank. To Jack’s surprise, the younger man accepted the call right away. 

“Thank you for calling, Inspector,” Aaron said. “I’ve been trying to reach you at your hotel.” 

“My apologies,” Jack answered, revealing nothing more about his whereabouts. “How can I help?” 

“The medical examiner has listed Mr. Irving’s death as a homicide.” 

“I see,” Jack replied. “I’ll pass that along to Melbourne. Thank you for the notification.” 

“Inspector,” Officer Aaron continued. “To be completely honest, we’re a small jurisdiction without much experience in murder investigations, much less ones with an international angle. I wonder if you might be free to consult with us on this case.” 

For the second time that day, Jack felt his world shifting again on its axis. “Yes,” he answered. “I believe I am free to assist. I’ll meet you in your office just as soon as I’m able.” 


	5. Sound Pictures

After lunch, Phryne accompanied Meg back to the Paramount studio lot on Melrose Avenue. 

As a typist in the story department, Meg wasn’t allowed to bring visitors onto the lot. Her friend April, on the other hand, a receptionist in the executive suite, had a different set of privileges. Soon Phryne Fisher, Australian film investor and occasional film director, waltzed past security with a guided tour and an all access pass, a gesture of friendship between countries in the global entertainment business. 

Paramount Studios produced pictures on an entirely different scale than Phryne had experienced working on her friend Raymond’s small film back in Melbourne. Half a dozen pictures were filming at once; dozens more were underway in various other stages of development — scenario writing, editing, promotions. Carpenters had their own massive workshops, as did the property masters and costumers, the camera and sound technicians. And Paramount was only one of the major studios in Los Angeles, Phryne had learned. Similar operations unfolded on studio lots across the area – the movie business seemingly untouched by economic turmoil elsewhere. 

It was all so invigorating! This had to be one of the best parts of investigating, Phryne thought. The opportunity to immerse yourself in an entirely new world that was otherwise completely inaccessible. 

“Find Eddie Halpert when you tour the sound department,” Meg had advised over lunch. “He was Brian’s closest confidant on the lot. He’ll be able to make sense of the technical drawings in these notebooks.” 

Phryne raised an eyebrow. “If so, why wasn’t Eddie invited in on the new business venture?” she asked. No one in Brian’s circle was above suspicion at this point. 

“Oh, he was,” Meg answered. “But Eddie is cautious by nature, and he has a wife and young children. He wasn’t about to throw over a sure thing at the studio for a long shot risk.” 

“But Brian was more restless,” Phryne added. 

“Independent, adventurous,” Meg supplied. “Maybe too much so.” A darkness clouded her features as she allowed herself, just for a moment, to imagine the worst. 

“We’ll find Brian,” Phryne said, offering a re-assuring hand to her new friend. “I don’t believe he’s gone far. I can feel it.” 

By pre-arrangement, Phryne’s guided tour of Paramount intersected with the correct group of sound engineers as they began their afternoon smoke break. April made introductions, then Phryne expressed interest in the finer points of boom mic design to steal a moment with Eddie out of earshot of the other men. He escorted Phryne to a corner work table in the research laboratory, back turned to the busy hallway, the flipped quickly through one of Brian’s notebooks. 

“Had Brian filed for a patent?” Phryne asked. 

Eddie nodded. “It was a sure thing,” he continued, pointing to a drawing on the notebook’s final pages. “These designs are a key advance in an omni-directional microphone. Once a production had that sort of thing, directors would have a greater range of choice in how to stage scenes.” 

“I see,” Phryne said, eyes sparkling as she imagined how she might have used the technology. 

“How do you do,” a voice interrupted. Phryne turned to see an elegant woman in dark trousers and a white blouse, wavy dark hair cut short and swept back in a no-nonsense style. “I’m Dorothy Arzner,” she continued. “I heard there was another woman director on the lot. We’re a rare breed.” 

“Phryne Fisher,” she responded warmly, extending her hand in greeting. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“Would you care to join me in the projector room, Miss Fisher?” Arzner continued. “I’m screening yesterday’s dailies and could use another trained eye.” 

Phryne retrieved the notebook from Eddie and returned the evidence to her bag. “I’d be delighted, Miss Arzner. Please, lead the way.” 

* * *

On the other side of the hills, Jack occupied a guest chair in Office Mike Aaron’s office, police file open on his lap, long legs stretched in front and resting on his battered leather trunk. 

“So Mr. Irving was a sound engineer of some sort,” Jack summarized. 

“Though only employed at Warners in the last few weeks, as best we can tell,” Aaron replied. “The ranch is converting to soundstages.” 

“Why have you circled this name?” Jack asked. “Joel Armstrong.” 

“Irving’s last known meeting, according the secretary. But no one at Warner’s knows the man. Could be this has nothing to do with Irving’s profession.” 

“I’m not ready to rule anything out,” Jack replied. “His trip to Melbourne last year had something to do with the film industry as well.” 

“The reason you were tracking him.” 

“I don’t have as much information from my colleagues as I’d like, given the constraints of telegraph. There’s a film producer in Melbourne soon to be tried for a homicide. Mr. Irving is — was — his alibi. The accused claims they were discussing innovations in microphone technology at the time of the murder.” 

Jack’s recitation of the facts of the related case was interrupted by Aaron’s ringing phone. Aaron answered firmly, in the manner of a commanding officer, then swiveled his chair around to the rear and murmured quietly into the mouthpiece, in the manner of a man consoling a wife who would be left alone for dinner. Jack did his best to respect their privacy. 

“Wife back in Australia?” Aaron asked once his call completed. 

“No,” Jack answered. “Not exactly.” 

“Only making conversation, Inspector. I won’t pry.” 

“It’s not what you think…” Jack started, loyalty to Phryne and the complexities of their personal and professional partnership summoning a need to explain further. 

Aaron stopped him before he began. “I’ve put mine off,” he boasted, misreading Jack’s hesitation. “Thank goodness for work. We’ve got a case full of holes and half-answers here, Robinson. Let’s take the first question first. How do we locate Joel Armstrong?” 

* * *

Several hours later, Phryne was ensconced with a boisterous group of movie folk at the Brown Derby on Wilshire, a legendary Hollywood watering hole. Everyone who was anyone — or attempting to become someone — eventually made their way to the Derby. Dorothy Arzner had insisted that Phryne come along, and Phryne felt it was as good a place as any to gain a wider perspective on her case, while enjoying a few drinks and engaging conversation. 

“Nazimova is a dear old friend,” Dorothy replied, after Phryne had recounted her time in New York theater circles (including the murder just outside Alla Nazimova's most recent Broadway turn). “I do wish she’d come back west.” 

“Her performance was extraordinary,” Phryne enthused. “One of the other performers was the most promising young actress…” 

Phryne fully intended to further extol the virtues of her friend Kate Hepburn to the powerful assemblage, but was stopped short by the appearance of a very familiar man in brown coat and fedora entering the restaurant side by side with a much younger man. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Phryne apologized to the table, the slipped from the booth and made a bee-line for Jack Robinson. 

Jack, for his part, was fully seated at his table — white napkin in lap, menu in hand — before he was made aware of Miss Fisher’s presence. 

“Jack Robinson,” she said. “What an unexpected surprise to find you here.” Given the public setting, Phryne feigned politeness, but the pitch of her voice and edge in her tone clearly revealed her pique to the man who knew her best. 

Jack glanced at Phryne, then back to Office Aaron, then to the open front door and sidewalk beyond. 

“Miss Fisher,” he said curtly — two could play the feigned politeness game. “Will you join me outside for a moment?” 

Phryne walked two steps ahead. Jack managed to keep up. 

In the dim Los Angeles twilight, they faced each other on the sidewalk. 

“I’m trying to work my case,” Jack stated. 

“I’m trying to work _my_ case,” Phryne stated, nearly simultaneously, her words overlapping, echoing, intermingling. 

Jack laughed out loud. What else could he do? And as a smile emerged around the edge of her eyes, he held his arms open. 

Phryne went to him willingly, daring a kiss right in the open, on the city street. 

“What do you say we work both cases together,” she suggested. 

Jack thought that was the best idea he’d heard in several days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real life [Dorothy Arzner](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Arzner) was the only woman director working in Hollywood in this period. In 1933, she would direct Katharine Hepburn in her second feature film, and first starring role, playing a female aviator in the film _Christopher Strong_.


End file.
